


Dance of the Periphery

by RibbonsInHerHair



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 05:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14278104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RibbonsInHerHair/pseuds/RibbonsInHerHair
Summary: Gendry meets several different Braavosi women... with wolf-eyes and stinging swords and sharp, unlady-like tongues.





	1. The brothel maid

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I started many years ago over on fanfiction.net. I want to expand it here!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry finds himself in Braavos, and encounters a tavern girl that sparks a memory.

The first time Gendry was in Braavos, the damp of the canals sank into his bones and made its home there in a way he liked not. He called Flea Bottom his home for most of his life; he was used to the heat and stink of too many bodies crushed together in that one place. He had supposed Braavos would be as steamy as Lys, or perhaps Myr, but the truth of it was that the former refugee colony was further north than King’s Landing in Westeros.

Well, he mused with little humor, he supposed he was a refugee too, now, so Braavos might suit him well yet.

He had taken to wandering Westeros in search of what little work could be given, but wandering was work in itself, and dangerous at that. He had almost lost an eye to bandits in the Riverlands, a pinky to a damned lion in ragged crimson, and his toes to the ever-growing cold.

As for the Brotherhood…he had no stomach for the type of justice they served now.

So to escape it (her) and the cold and the countless others who wanted his head to satisfy their own game of thrones, he had taken his leave of Westeros.

And so he found himself, nestled into damp and rotting straw in the saddest animal keep in Braavos, keeping the pigs company thanks to the pity of the brothel madam who owned them and the last of his coin.

He could hear the grunts and moans of the whores and the customers through the flimsy walls. Annoying, but having to hear sounds of pleasure was infinitely better than the screams of agony that had often accompanied his nights with the Brotherhood.

The door creaked open, and the brothel’s serving girl crept in. She came to stand before him, a lanky little thing on the edge of womanhood, with a wide mouth and inky hair and shrewd eyes far older than her years. She would make a fine whore one day.

She squinted at him, trying to see his face under the darkness of his hood, and he was about to ask what she wanted when she produced a heel of dark bread from her skirt. He took it carefully, with a nod.

It was hard as stone and had a biting taste. Delicious.

“Name?”

He startled a bit. He had not expected her to speak the Common Tongue. Master Mott had once told him that the Braavosi often refused to learn anything but their bastard form of Valyrian. He took another bite of the bread, and chewed slowly, hoping the quiet would force her away. She tilted her head to peer at him again, without success.

A shriek pierced their silence, petering off into a heady moan, followed by several rapid bangs of a headboard against a wall.

He cleared his throat. “Waters.” Safe enough, he supposed.

 She twirled a piece of her hair absently. “Much water here. It is known. You like it.”

He grunted. “Maybe.” Silence again. “You speak the language of Westeros?”

“A little.” She nibbled on the corner of her bottom lip, then bit down firmly.

He knew a girl, once, who did that when she lied to him. Gendry sighed long and low.

“What’s your name, then?” he asked.

“Mercedene,” She scratched one bare, dirty foot against the back of her calf, and gave him a smile, a quirk of her wide mouth that pleased him unexpectedly. “But you call me Mercy, yes?”

He held up the bread she had gifted him with and smiled back. “Well for this, you are the most merciful queen in all the seven heavens. I will call you M’lady, instead.”

She did not laugh at his jape like he thought she would. Instead, she stared at him, smile gone, those clear eyes changing suddenly, piercing him in a way that made him wholly uncomfortable.

“I am not a lady,” she fairly growled, teeth bared. Her thin shoulders fairly hackled, in offended response to his suggestion. Her stance became aggressive, as if in combat, legs spread and planted firm, as if ready to fell the one who would dare think her a weak-willed maiden. If he had not already been seated, she probably would have shoved him.

Gendry stared in shock. The unbelievable similarity tugged in his chest so suddenly, so sharply, that he felt he could not breathe. She would be about this age, he thought wildly. But no, no, the face was all wrong, the hair, the lips…

“Girl,” he croaked, hand stretching out to grasp a thin wrist and drag her close, a half-formed thought racing incoherently through his skull. But she saw his intention, and backed away.

“I….I go,” she muttered, and her face seemed to morph, and no longer was a warrior standing before him, but a simple brothel maid. She gazed at him for a breath of a second more.

 A flurry of skirts and she was gone.


	2. Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry meets a barber girl in a brothel.

The next time Gendry was in Braavos, he was tanned and tough with calluses on his palms, a black beard that was getting troublesome, and a gold dragon in his pocket.

Sailing had been hard, tougher even than smithing in the dead of summer with not a suggestion of a breeze to cool him, and his muscles still ached deep down from the dull, repetitious pulling of the oars.

But it paid better than most work, what with the Iron Fleet terrorizing the waters, capturing vessels and plundering them of loot and men. Victarion had given the Iron Islanders a taste of the East’s riches, and now they lusted after it like Lyseni whores.

Men willing to sail were few and far between, but demand for goods was as high as ever, so merchants had opened their fat purses in the hopes of luring a few desperate men to the oars. Gendry had been one such man.

He had been lucky that there had not been trouble on the open sea, and now he wanted nothing more than a warm bed and a stiff drink to celebrate living on through another day.

He found himself quickly in a dockside inn, a dimly-lit place that clearly did a healthy side business of whoring, if the amount of scantily clad women and girls lounging on sailors’ laps was any indication.

But it was fairly quiet, warm, and relatively clean, and he was not going to find anything better this close to port.

One look at the dragon had the madam sending girls scurrying to prepare his food and drink and to draw hot water for a bath.

He sat in the common room to eat, and the grime and sweat of the journey on his skin felt all the more pronounced now that he knew he had a bath coming.

The stew-filled trencher was heavenly after a month of hardtack and he easily polished off three tankards of ale with the food. He would have had a fourth but a buzz was setting in and a few whores had tried to wind their arms about his shoulders, so he took his leave to find his room and his bath.

It was the best room they had, clearly, with a well-stuffed straw mattress that had curtains to pull closed about it, as well as a few chairs and a small desk for writing. The tub was pulled into the center of the room, steam rising invitingly from its lip.

Gendry shucked off his clothes quickly, and piled them by the door to be collected by one of the girls. He inspected himself briefly, noticing how the long work of rowing had raised new muscles along his left arm, now more on par with his smithing arm. The hair on his chest was thicker, now, he noted, and he might have even grown a little. He was a man grown in age already, but his body was not done changing, making him stronger, taller, broader even still. Padding over to the tub, he saw there were towels folded daintily beside it, and a bar of rough, sweet-smelling soap. He stepped over the edge and sank into the heat with a loud, tired moan, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as the water massaged the soreness from his body.

A quiet laugh disturbed him from his rest.

Gendry’s head shot up to see a girl – no, a woman – observing him from the doorway. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked, eyebrow quirked. He had the distinct feeling she was laughing at him.

“What do you want?” he huffed, sinking a little lower the tub. She grinned a little wider, and placed a hand on a hip.

“Madam said you’re a Westerosi, and she thought you might want some company from another who speaks your language.” She took a seat beside the tub and glanced shamelessly in, but the dirt from his travels had already muddied the water.

“I won’t pay the coin for a whore, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he replied, but he eyed her anyway.

She was quite pretty, with soft, yellow curls and small straight teeth. She wore a flimsy dress, like all the other girls there, a bright blue that matched her eyes.

She rolled those lovely eyes at him. “Don’t fret, ser, I promise not to take your coin nor your virginity.”

He gaped at her. “I…I’m not-“

“Oh, really? I had you for a brother of the Seven, from the way you rebuffed Miranna and the others downstairs. Well, no matter. Come, tell me of your travels. I long for a good story and to hear the Common Tongue.”

He was so shocked by her forward and brisk behavior – whores were usually much more coy and flirtatious – that his story fell from his lips easily. He told her of the Myrish silk they had carried, and feathers from the Summer Isles. Of the purple dyes that looked almost black that cost more than a man’s life. She was a good audience, asking questions and listening close to all the details, gasping in wonder and laughing at his story of the dwarf performers he had seen near Mereen, riding animals like horses.

He made sure to include an anecdote of a pretty serving girl he had bedded while they had made port in Slaver’s Bay.

“A slave, then.” She responded dismissively.

“No, a free woman,” he growled back, annoyed.

Another mocking grin slipped onto her lips, “Did she wear a heavy gold necklace? Those are called collars there, you know.”

He simply shook his head at her. “What about you, then? Tell me a story.” She tilted her head to peer at him, eyes clear and sharp. He shivered a little, though the water was still warm. “What do you want to know?”

He splashed the water a little. “About Westeros, I guess. Where are you from? You have no Braavosi accent when you speak.”

She smiled again, though with less mirth than before, “Ah, good ser, that is something I would have to take your coin for. But let me tell you this: When I lived in Westeros, I worked for a man who cut hair and beards, and now I am quite good at it myself. And it looks like a rat died in yours.”

A strong laugh rolled through Gendry’s chest. “Are you asking to cut my hair?”

“No, no, just the beard I would think. It is horrendously tangled.”  She produced a small silver pair of scissors from her gown, wiggled them in his direction and raised her brows.

“If those are half as sharp as your tongue, you may accidentally cut my throat.” She laughed, a pure, lovely sound, head tossed back carelessly, exposing the delicate line of her throat.

Gendry blushed.

“Never fear, my hands are quick and steady.” She winked at him, and grinned a little. “In all my many services.”

He could feel the heat spreading to his ears now. “Ah…well, alright then.” He cleared his throat. “Carry on.” She picked up a chipped bowl from beneath the tub and handed it to him. “Here, hold this below your chin to catch the falling hairs.” The woman then leaned close, and began snipping parts here and there, her soft, cool hands brushing gently across his cheeks and lips.

“But maybe you had the right of it,” she japed as she clipped along his jawline, “it would be very easy to kill a man this way. I could easily be an assassin, and you’d never suspect it.” She giggled at the absurdity. “Do I look like a cold-blooded killer, ser?”

Gendry looked at her, studying. No, she was soft and pliant, not a killer. He had seen enough killers to know... But there was something about her. Her eyes gave nothing away and glittered almost dangerously when the light caught them a certain way. Wild, they were, and he suddenly felt as if he was standing in the shadows of Harrenhall, staring at the rain-soaked figure with blood on her blade and vengeance in her eyes…

He reached up a hand and, clasping both of her wrists in one palm, took her hands gently away from his face. “I can finish the rest.” She frowned, “I only have to wash it and it will be done.” She grabbed up the soap and cloth and moved close again, reaching. He moved his face away, setting the bowl down, outside the tub, so he could grab her hands again. “No, it is enough. I will wash it with the rest of myself once you leave.”

A queer, annoyed look crossed her face. “You have to wash it a certain way, else you will make it all a mess again.” She slapped his hands away quite firmly, and dipped her hand and the soap into the water, grinning at the face he made. “Come, let me-“

“Enough!”

 He hadn’t meant to shout, but her animal eyes and curving smile and his nakedness had been too much, too different and too familiar and he wanted her gone or maybe in his bed, he didn’t know, and-

Her face changed so suddenly he almost missed it, the way her easy, laughing features became hard, her curved lips twisting into a scowl. “Bull-headed bastard of a boy!” she yelled, and threw the heavy soap at him with enough force that he grunted when it bounced off his chest.

He stared at her, stunned. “You-“  But she was not finished. She smacked the water forcefully, throwing much of it in his face. He had not expected it, and it burned its way down his nose and throat.

By the time he had coughed most of it from his lungs and wiped it from his eyes, the woman was gone.


	3. The bravo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry has a run-in with a bravo.

After the incident with the woman in the inn, Gendry made a point of avoiding Braavos in his travels. The women were free and wild spirits and they reminded him too much of her. He had tried Meereen, but he was sure the Targaryen Queen would not take well to knowing that the bastard son of the Baratheon Usurper was making his home within her walls. Nevertheless, he had stayed for a little, using a different name and growing out his beard and hair, to earn some coin for another journey, and had seen her once or twice in the city. She, too, had sharp eyes and a firm countenance, a woman who knew what hurts the world could bring and still faced it unflinchingly, defiantly.

It was the similarity that was most dangerous to him, he thought. Her likeness made him want to push through the crowd, kneel at her feet and announce himself, pledge his service to her, promising to protect her with his life.

Arya would have laughed at him and called him stupid for such a display. Daenerys Targaryen would likely have fed him to her dragons.

So he kept his silence, and left Meereen as quickly as possible. The only ship he could secure, however, would only go to Braavos, so he soon found himself in the canals again, glumly staring up at the broad shoulders of the Titan.

The first thing he did was seek out a barber – his hair had grown so shaggy that he resembled a bear, and it made him look more dangerous  than he wanted. One did not want to seem aggressive in a city where bravos made their reputations on the blood of strong opponents. He found a likely spot, though the owner spoke not a lick of the Common Tongue. With his broken Braavosi, a series of hand gestures between the two, and several coppers, he managed to get what he wanted.

Though this barber’s hands were neither soft nor gentle, and no stories were given or told.

Thus, freshly shorn with a beard cropped closer to his face, Gendry wandered the narrow streets that lined the canals; eating some cooked clams and watching the courtesans’ boats float by. He entered a smith that leaned dangerously far out over the water to ask for work, but there was none to be found, he was told. The Westerosi apprentice told him he could try the theater, because they always needed new props, and the building itself was sagging slowly into the earth. They were in desperate need of new steelwork, the boy supposed, and they might be able to hire him.

The Gate, it was called, on the edge of Drowned Town.

He thanked the boy, and tried to make his way to the theater, but after getting inextricably lost for the fourth time in the winding alleys and secret corridors of Braavos, he gave up. It was getting dark, by then, and he was alone and clearly not a local. He strode on purposefully down a few rickety causeways that spanned little offshoots of the canal, trying not to notice the curious glances he was getting from the few men and women lounging about the tiny streets.

Gendry looked about for an inn, but none of the gilded signs hanging from the shops seemed to indicate a place to stay.  He took a few more turns at random, hoping to chance upon something, and realized he was at a dead end. The small channel he had been following ended abruptly in a large reservoir, surrounded in a square by ramshackle houses built directly into the water, standing on long stalks like birds from the Summer Isles, but uglier birds he had never seen, for the houses sagged with age and the windows and doors looked the yawning maws of anguished beasts in the half light of the dusk. Through the mess of spindly, rotted legs, he could see what looked like a wide avenue and dry land.

There was nothing for it. He shrugged his small pack of belongings a little higher on his back, and preceded to grasp on the nearest spindle and haul himself to the next one. The legs of the houses crisscrossed every which way, in a desperate attempt to keep the houses afloat, and some were nearly horizontal, offering good footholds as he maneuvered slowly through this bizarre forest to dry, safe land.

He damned the whole city to seven hells when one particularly putrid branch gave way beneath his right boot.

He was more than halfway through, sweating a little from the effort when a voice from his left and slightly above him echoed out in mirth, “There are many cats in Braavos. It is known. But this one is more a monkey than anything else. What grace you have!”

Gendry snapped his head around. There, in the crook of two beams, he could make out a shadowed figure perched easily on his heels, and the gleam of a sword being twirled casually between two hands.

This was exactly what Gendry had not wanted. “Looking for a fight, bravo? I have no sword, and a duel against me as I am now, tangled up in here, will not prove your skill at all.”

“Ah, but in so saying you admit that on fair footing and fairer terms you would bring me great reward.”

“What?” Gendry barked, annoyed.

“It means, bastard, that I will wait for you to get on land, I will give you a sword, and then we will duel.” Gendry made out the glint of a toothy smile at the words.

“I don’t wish to duel you.”

“It is already decided. Come meet your fate, O great gorilla.”

The bravo swung down easily from his seat, dancing lightly from beam to beam, sword twirling through the air dramatically, and quickly reached the firm ground on the other side. Gendry growled, and pulled himself through with no small amount of effort.

The bravo clapped his hands with delight. “Well done!” It was meant to be as condescending as it sounded, Gendry knew. The bravo stepped into the moonlight – for now it was dark for true – and Gendry saw the figure clearly for the first time.

A woman.                                                 


	4. The bravo Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry duels the bravo woman.

She wore the same gaudy clothing that was so popular among the bravos – a green jerkin over a loose tunic of shimmering gold silk. It was so fine that he could see a hint of her lithe, brown arms through it. Her breeches were equally ridiculous, loose and draping around her thighs and knees but tight around her calves.  To allow for movement he supposed, but their practicality did not extend to the fact that they were dyed a crimson that would make a seasoned whore blush, as would her sword belt, black leather with a gold clasp in the form of two naked figures locked passionately together.. The woman had her hair loose and wild about her breasts, tied away from her face at the temples with braids shot through with silver silk threads and a jade earring dangling from her left lobe.

Her costume made his eyes hurt.

 Despite all the extravagance, however, her face was rather plain, though she had full lips and high cheekbones that only served to make her appear more dangerous.

She allowed his stare for a bit, then loosed one of the two swords she had hanging from her belt.

“Here, monkey. Every duel is a dance, but a dance needs two partners. It is known.” She tossed him the sword. He caught it easily.

It was a bravo sword, light and thin and deadly sharp.

A needle.

He huffed a breath and lowered the blade so the tip touched the ground. “As I said before, I do not wish to duel you.”

She grinned maliciously, “I thought the blood of Westerosi bastards runs hot, but it seems that is not the case. Maybe it is cold, perhaps. ”

He bristled. “I am no craven, bravo.”

“Maybe you are and maybe you are not. Let us see, yes?”

 She did not wait for his response. Leaping forward, she brought her blade up in a smooth arc, nearly swiping the tip through the soft flesh of his neck, but he parried just in time, clumsily, not used to the lightness of the sword.  He was a man built for broadswords and shields, solid weapons that could rend armor with crushing blows.

She flowed like water, not constrained by plate or mail, attacking high then sinking impossibly low to slash at his knees and ankles. He could only deflect them as they came, light but deadly, raining down upon him with a speed barely known to the knights of Westeros. She nearly cut him several times, but years of fighting for his life had made him faster than his size suggested, if not more graceful. The jabs he could not dodge he tried to catch on the flat of his blade, but she often struck the edge, sending shocks up his arm.

Gendry realized he would not be able to defend himself forever. With a roar, he charged at her, forcing his way inside her guard, overwhelming her with his size. He had her now.

But then her free hand came up and laid an open handed blow to his ear. The world spun for a second as she skipped easily away from him.

“You should not focus so on the sword, bastard. It is not the only weapon I use,” her voice was full of laughter. She was enjoying this.

Gendry grunted. “That so. I’ll remember.” She did not wait for him to straighten fully before she went for his throat again. He swung his sword up, deflecting the tip of hers again, but she did something, so quick he could not see it, a flick of the wrist and a blur of the fingers, and just as her sword was sailing back, it changed direction, over his raised sword, and bit into the meat of his bicep.

Cursing, he leapt back, blood pounding in his ears. It was not terribly deep, he thought, peering down at the tear and the slowly reddening cloth, but it stung like seven hells. He gripped his fingers around the hilt, testing, and the pain lanced up into the wound as soon as he did. Not good at all.

She snickered at the grimace on his face. “It is a little scratch, is it not? Surely, that is not all you are worth, a great ape like you?” Gendry scowled and shifted back into a fighting stance.

“Come and find out, woman.” The moonlight glinted off her jade earring and that was the only warning he had of her movement, lunging in with sword arm fully extended, giving her impossible reach.  

But he was ready. He spun to the right, dropping the sword deftly into his left hand as he did so, using the momentum to bring his good arm around in a violent stroke that whistled through the air. She doubled over backward to avoid it, springing off of her free hand to stand again, but she was unbalanced, and Gendry took the opening.

He aimed a vicious sidestroke at her throat that would have parted her head from her shoulders despite the lightness of the bravo blade, but she managed to arrest its momentum, barely, with a two-handed grip on her sword.

She did not even see his fist before he smashed it into the unprotected side of her body and the tell-tale crack of a rib echoed over the water behind them.

She gasped in pain, nearly crumpling in half, but she still managed to swipe her sword weakly at him. Gendry grabbed the offending arm, swatted the sword easily from her grasp and hauled her against the wall to their left, pinning the other arm as well so she could not take another fist to his ear.

“Told you I’d remember,” he grinned down at her, “Now give it up, bravo. I won.”

She laughed, eyes sparkling dangerously. “It is so. What would you have from me then, victor?” Her voice dropped in pitch, the words rolled off her tongue with a purr.

“I…what?”

“Did you not know? If neither dies in a duel, the winner may ask anything from the loser. Her life perhaps, or maybe her sword and coin…or maybe something else, if he wishes it.”

It was her turn to grin as she rolled her hips slowly into his, watching as he gaped at her.

“You must be japing. You wanted to kill me just a second past.”

“A second past and forgotten, it is." She leaned forward to breathe the words against his the pulse point in his neck, tongue flicking out to punctuate her words. Gendry groaned aloud, but shook his head.

“I am not so desperate that I would try to bed a woman who would happily geld me the moment I had my cock out.”

“Come now. Bravos have their honor. I swear to do no such thing.” She twitched her hips again, coaxing, giving him a sweet little moan, and grinning again when his body reacted. “Besides, I am not asking for you to bed me.” She nipped his earlobe. “I am asking for you to fuck me against this wall, bastard. That way we can both walk away well satisfied with this fight.”

Despite the heat of her words, or the way it stirred the knot low in his belly, Gendry leaned back suddenly. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Saying what?”

“Bastard this and bastard that. You’ve said it several times now. What makes you sure I am base-born?”

The woman froze, body no longer rubbing against his. The sultry gaze evaporated from her eyes like smoke and Gendry watched as all the lines of her face, soft and imploring before, sharpened like stone.

She did not speak, no, did not give him any sort of explanation, and just as he was going to repeat the question, she aimed a brutal knee at his groin. Gendry caught it with his thigh, only able to do so because her legs had not been completely wound between his. Grunting with the impact, and the shock of the completely unexpected strike, he pressed her more fully against the Braavosi stone.

“Seven hells!” he growled, desire gone and fingers tightening slightly around her wrists. “What was that for!?”

“I only meant to insult you. Do you prefer the term monkey? It suits you fairer, stupid man!” she snarled, answering his original question and ignoring his second.

He almost believed her. Almost sent her on her way, with not another word spoken between them, happy to curse her as just another damned Braavosi woman with strange reactions to everything he said-

But the woman nibbled, ever so slightly, on the corner of those full lips of hers.

The world seemed to shudder to a halt, and Gendry’s heart began to pound harder than it had in the whole time they had fought.  He had seen that before, when a woman’s face seemed to become a transparent mask, a façade for some other person entirely, and he had glimpsed the true person beneath; precious, breathless glimpses at a girl who should be dead.

“It’s you,” he gasped. She looked at him as if he was slow in the head, “What?”

“It’s you. I don’t know how you did it, but it’s you. The whore, the girl in the barn, this bravo, it has always been you.” The words tumbled from his lips breathlessly, as he stared at the woman, searching her face for some gleam of the girl he once knew, the lady-who-was-not, the tiny, vicious creature who had slipped from his side as easily as a dream.

“Arya.”

He did not know how this could be possible, that she was alive, somehow, but not herself, not Arya of House Stark, but common Braavosi women of different faces and ages and professions.

The bravo’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and she began to struggle against him earnestly. “I know no one of that name.”

He kept her pinned, even as she arched against him, trying to free her limbs, though it surely pulled painfully at her ribs.

“Arya, please, you know me. I am Gendry Waters from King’s Landing. We traveled together, fought together… nearly died together, on more than one occasion.” He spoke urgently, hoping to tease some memory, some flash of recognition from her eyes.

But all he saw was growing panic. “I told you I do not know this Arya you speak of,” she shouted at him, “Do you understand that, bastard!?” He recoiled slightly from the vitriol lashing from her.

She took the opportunity to swing her knee up again, and this time she hit her mark. Gendry sank to his knees, vision blurring with reactionary tears, bile in his throat.

She had already scooped up her swords and was scaling the high wall by the time he swallowed several times and forced himself not to throw up.

“Arya,” he managed through the pain, “I will find you. No matter what face you take, how well you hide yourself, I will know it is you, one way or the other. And I will have the truth from you. I swear it on the Seven.”

She paused at the top of the wall, glancing over her left shoulder, regarding him kneeling below her for a slow second, and shook her head.

“You will try.”

And then, like the others, she disappeared.


End file.
